


The Many Moods Of Thorin Oakenshield

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Sassy Bilbo, Shire AU, and maybe some crack, bagginshield, because ouch my feels, except it isnt exactly because neither have admitted their feelings, massive sap thorin, ninety percent sassy banter, with a small dash of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-06 22:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6771949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post-BOTFA Shire AU, encapsulating flour fights, water fights, sulking, a harp, and flower crowns. Oh – and, of course, a very oblivious pair of idiots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> because the world NEEDS more bagginshield obliviousness and fluff

For the first few months, Bilbo had been woken by Thorin’s screams.

He would jerk awake as soon as the noise began, throwing off the sleepy confusion which lay about his shoulders like a cloak, before scrabbling for the oil wick which was now always on hand. Sometimes the shouts would evolve to crashes and he would force his usually-nimble feet to move faster, faster, tripping over himself in his haste. The halls of Bag End, made for comfortable silence, would echo with the keening cries of the once-king’s night terrors.

When he reached Thorin’s rooms, he had a routine.

If the dwarf was holding some sort of sharp object (getting more creative each time, after Bilbo confiscated the last one) the hobbit would edge as close as he could around his wild swinging before pinning his arms to his sides in a tight embrace. Usually he would thrash a little before calming, though then he would begin to shake as if he was coming apart, which was almost worse. When Bilbo wondered why, he thought it was the vulnerability, the wrongness of seeing such a strong and stubborn creature felled by ink-black memories, reduced to a child frightened by the storm outside. He would lead Thorin away, out of the room, outside to let the dwarf breathe beneath the endless sky.

 _‘The drums,’_ he would always whisper, almost whimper, over and over in a broken stream. _‘The drums. The drums. They’re coming.’_

He would sit the dwarf down on the bench outside, and pull his head onto his own small shoulder (so small, to offer comfort to someone so great) and bury his hands in his night-dark hair, and press his cheek to Thorin’s ear.

‘Shh, Thorin,’ he would murmur softly. ‘I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re not alone.’

Bilbo would repeat this until the dwarf’s shoulders were still, and Bilbo’s neck had dried, and the early morning breeze had swept away the poison stench of sweat and fear and tears. For the shortest moment Thorin would let out a long breath and melt into his hold, before standing swiftly and going inside without looking at him once.

The hobbit would stay on the bench for a long time. His insides would ache with a phantom pain, like the gutted fishes he sees at the market. Usually he would wish that he could ask Thorin about whether he did the right thing or not, because the dwarf, he felt so fragile, and what if Bilbo was cracking him further with his clumsy care? But he never dared to ask, never spoke of it, because that was the understanding they had.

Thorin would come back out with his eyes fresh and his hair braided and two pipes in his hand, and they would sit together in comfortable silence until the loud complaining of the hobbit’s stomach broke it and they went inside with a shared grin, Bilbo to prepare breakfast, Thorin to continue whichever book he’d bought him from the markets last week.

Bilbo would glance at the once-king over his shoulder, surreptitiously. There was always an intense crease between Thorin’s dark brows as he stared down at the page, somewhat reminiscent of his expression in battle, and it never failed to bring a small, awfully fond smile to his face as he turned back to the eggs.

He was in deep, and he knew it.

(Because, whatever the dwarf might think, his night terrors didn’t make him weaker in Bilbo’s eyes. They made him so much stronger; that he lived every day, with this burden, and _continued_ to live with it, meant more than any prowess in battle.)

But it wasn’t like he’d ever _do_ anything about it.

(Because Thorin relied on him. He relied on him and that was something so deep, so precious, that Bilbo would never risk it. He felt guilty for even feeling those things, because Thorin _needed_ him, as a friend, and his feelings were a betrayal.)

Still, that didn’t stop the feathers which tickled his stomach whenever the king smiled. Didn’t soothe the ache in his chest when they sat on armchairs before the fireplace and the flames gilded his strong profile. Didn’t cool the warmth flooding his chest when he scowled down at the trowel Bilbo was trying to teach him to use. Didn’t make his knees any stronger on the rare occasions when Thorin sang, eyes misty as the mountains they travelled to. Didn’t mean it felt any less _right_ to see him beneath the bright blue sky of Hobbiton.

Didn’t stop him from comparing those eyes to that sky.

Bilbo reflected on this as he tapped the ash from his pipe, watching the tiny flakes settle amid the blades of grass by his feet. The vines of the plant behind him brushed at his curls; it really out to be trimmed back, he thought absently. Perhaps he would get Thorin to do it.

He easily pictured the once-king, shears in hand, glaring awfully at the bush. He always seemed to adopt the same expression whenever Bilbo attempted to rope him into gardening.

‘Those things are _possessed_ ,’ he’d insisted once. ‘Demonic _.’_

His temper had finally snapped after he’d been holding down a rosebush branch, attempting to prune it, and it had promptly sprung back up and smacked him in the face. Thorin still maintained that he had not shrieked – it had only been a _kingly sound of surprise_.

Bilbo snickered.

‘What amuses you?’ asked the dwarf in question, glancing over with a curious smile hovering about his mouth. He seemed much more relaxed than usual today: his dreams had been nowhere near as bad the night before, after all.

‘Your green thumb,’ Bilbo replied, then paused. ‘Or lack thereof.’

Thorin snorted inelegantly.

‘If I had a green thumb, it was chopped off many years before.’

Letting out a merry laugh, the hobbit leaned back contentedly – into the vine’s embrace. Damn.

Well, he could live with a few leaves in his hair.

‘With that I can agree,’ he replied archly, seeing Thorin’s teeth flash in a grin. The sun’s warmth was trickling down his neck, and the rather excellent Longbottom Leaf had considerably mellowed his temper; both seemed to have worked their magic on the dwarf as well, who was studying the Shire before him with an almost affectionate gaze. It did the hobbit’s heart good to see. Barely a year had passed since the Battle of the Five Armies had torn the fabric of Middle Earth, and Bilbo had slipped away to destroy a certain Ring, only to return to Fili and Kili injured and Thorin on his deathbed.

His nephews’ hurts still troubled him the most, Bilbo knew. Often he rambled of black arrows and a massive double-bladed axe in the fevered grips of his dreams. Even though Fili had survived with his only penance blindness, and most of Kili’s leg had been saved, they may as well have died. In the once-king’s eyes, he had failed them.

‘You are troubled,’ Thorin announced suddenly, and Bilbo almost fell off the bench. He had not realised that he’d been so deep in thought, nor that the dwarf had been watching him.

‘Oh, I’m fine,’ he replied airily as he resettled, waving the idea away with the rest of his pipe-smoke. He tried not to watch Thorin’s eyes narrow, but he still saw when they suddenly softened.

‘You have helped me enough, Bilbo,’ the once-king said softly. ‘Allow me to return the favour.’

Bilbo glanced at him, shocked. It was the first time that he’d mentioned the existence of his nightmares, let alone the hobbit’s inept attempts at soothing them. It was therefore understandable that when he spoke, he stumbled over his words a little, like he’d stumbled over his feet that morning in the loud darkness.

‘There– there is no favour to return! I did that – _do_ that – of my own free will,’ he sputtered.

‘I know you do,’ Thorin replied calmly. ‘And that is why I ask.’

‘That makes no sense,’ Bilbo muttered beneath his breath. He frowned down at his pipe, a much safer option than those thrice-damnable eyes. As he waited for the dwarf’s interest to run out, but he merely continued to watch him silently, and when Bilbo could no longer ignore it he sighed softly.

_Curse the stubbornness of dwarves!_

‘I am…not yet ready to speak of it,’ he said honestly.

He was prepared to speak more, explain further, but Thorin accepted this with a simple nod, and if Bilbo thought he might have caught a glimpse of frown lines on his brow, he must have been mistaken.

‘As you wish.’

Seeking to dissolve the tension which had settled around the both of them, the hobbit stood and stretched.

‘Well,’ he said, barely having to look down at the (unnecessarily) tall dwarf, ‘I’d best be started with dinner.’

He managed a smile, but Thorin’s expression remained serious. There was an odd tint to his eyes, a discordant note in a familiar tune, and Bilbo hastily looked down at his feet. That look threw him, he would readily admit – if only to himself – even if he couldn’t quite place what it was.

‘You have a leaf in your hair.’

‘Oh,’ Bilbo said absently, ruffling his curls with his free hand. He didn’t notice how close the dwarf was until a light touch brushed against his head, and his eyes snapped up to see Thorin regarding him with an expression carefully neutral.

‘There,’ he said quietly, flicking the speck of green away. With a muttered thanks, Bilbo slipped around him and up to the round green door of Bag End, scrubbing viciously at his red cheeks all the way.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Bilbo fruitlessly wiped at the sheen of sweat adorning his brow, eyes narrowed to an irritable squint as they jumped from stall to stall. He skirted around a passing mother and her faunt, striving to ignore the prickling discomfort of his best waistcoat (well, second-best; his best had been destroyed in an absolutely mad jaunt across the countryside with a certain irritating wizard and thirteen _horrific_ dwarves). The markets were unnaturally crowded this week, perhaps due to the encroaching of Midsummer, and most especially the Midsummer Party. Hobbits were predictable creatures after all.

As he made his way down the street, a vender called out a cheery greeting. He tipped his hat and gave an equally merry reply – no matter how hot the day, a Baggins was a Baggins, and he would damn well act like it. At any rate, he was sure that his Took half had been allowed enough free reign for an entire lifetime by this point.

‘Would you care for some respite from the sun, Master Bilbo?’

The call came from Reginald Proudfoot, an elderly hobbit who had been good friends with his father. Bilbo swiftly made his way over to his stall, posture folding with relief as shade swept over him with a cooling wing.

‘Good morning, Master Reginald,’ he greeted with a rather tired smile. Seeing this, Reg chuckled genially and offered him a handkerchief.

‘And a fine hot one it is too!’

‘Truer words have never been spoken,’ agreed Bilbo gravely. The old hobbit’s eyes crinkled with amusement, the warmth of his expression befitting his white curls and bright yellow weskit. Reg was undoubtedly one of the more accepting of his species – a rare sort these days, Bilbo reflected gloomily. The few times Thorin had accompanied him to the markets, Reg had been pleasant and welcoming, which was more than could be said for most hobbits to meet the once-king. Most gawked shamelessly and scuttled away when he neared, and those were the polite ones.

(Although, Thorin certainly didn’t help the situation with his constant glowering.)

‘And how is your dwarf?’ Reg asked jovially, seeming to follow the younger hobbit’s thought pattern as he flopped down on a nearby chair.

Bilbo pushed away a large lute and sighed.

‘The others are all so…so _unwelcoming_ ,’ he said petulantly, feeling like a faunt once more in the presence of his oldest friend. Reg had been quite the parental figure after the death of Bungo and Belladonna, and his familiar actions sent Bilbo back.

‘Well, you have to be patient with them,’ Reg replied archly, flitting around the small square of space. He was oddly spry for his years; in fact, he often reminded the younger hobbit of a shorter, portly Gandalf. Bilbo watched Reg adjust a stand of fiddle-bows with a brooding cast to his expression.

‘I suppose; it is very frustrating, though. Times are so much brighter now, yet still we fear outsiders! Has nothing changed?’

‘Not yet, perhaps,’ Reg said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘But it will, my boy. It will.’

‘Thank you,’ Bilbo replied, his attention snared by an instrument half-obscured by a star-shaped tambourine. When he’d first seen the tambourine after returning, it had reminded him irresistibly of Nori, and he had laughed rather helplessly for an improperly long while. 

Reginald seemed to catch the distracted tone to his voice and turned, eyebrows rising at the source of Bilbo’s interest. For a moment his gaze jumped between the instrument and the younger hobbit, before a keen spark took up residence in his eye.

‘Master Oakenshield play the harp, does he?’ he asked shrewdly.

Bilbo squeaked like a fieldmouse.

‘No! Well, yes. But that isn’t the point!’

‘Are you sure?’ Reg queried, eyebrow climbing higher in a familiar expression. Bilbo had seen it often as a fauntling, usually when he had an apple pie or a batch of cookies in his chubby grip and the confused voices of some avid baker echoed through the Shire. Such instances usually ended in Bilbo confessing his crime, and the two hobbits having a good laugh about it later as they polished off the baked goods.

Bilbo felt a stab of guilt, and sighed once more.

‘Very well, Reg, you old fox, it is. You are much too wily for your own good.’

Reginald Proudfoot smiled down at his old foster-faunt.

‘You always _have_ been an atrocious liar, my boy.’

‘Thank you,’ Bilbo said again, the term this time laced with irony. Reg guffawed and ruffled his curls.

‘Come now, you know it’s true. But here, have the harp; I have no use for it, and nobody seems to want the old thing. It’ll just sit there gathering dust if you don’t take it away.’

‘I couldn’t possibly! That is much too generous,’ said the younger, taken aback.

‘What are you insinuating, hmm? Calling old Reg a coin-counter?’

‘No, no,’ Bilbo fumbled, looking more horrified by the second. ‘I just–’

‘Oh, Bilbo, I’m teasing,’ Reg chuckled, shaking his head fondly. ‘Just take the silly thing. It would look much fairer beneath a Dwarf’s skilled touch.’

Here he winked quite suggestively at Bilbo, who groaned and buried his face in his hands, his fingers not quite able to hide the redness splashed across his cheeks. ‘You will be the death of me, Reginald Proudfoot,’ he muttered into his palm.

Reg’s laugh was crass and booming, and the memory of it followed him all the way up to Bag End, the unwieldy brown-wrapped package nestled among the groceries in Bilbo’s arms doing nothing to make it go away. 

::::

That evening, Bilbo was curled comfortably in his imprudently massive armchair, dozing before the warmth of the fire as he reflected on his current perch. Before his journey There and Back Again, the hobbit had much preferred the smaller Halfling-sized chair to the one his mother had installed for the occasional visiting Big Folk; yet when the second occupant of Bag End had joined him, he’d gravitated towards the smaller chair, and Bilbo had gladly let him have it. He was even coming to appreciate his ridiculously enormous perching spot.

It was almost like his love for Thorin, he reflected with a snort, amused by the comparison. At first he’d been uncomfortable and hated it a little – it had come rather out of the blue, of course. Then he’d come to endure it, and existed thus for a time. Then he came to view it as rather exciting, a change, a chance for a fresh view on the world. Then suddenly he was comfortable.

 _Too_ comfortable.

Bilbo huffed and stretched out a little, exasperated with himself. The occurrence of Thorin’s nightmares had been patchy lately; he’d been wondering if there was perhaps something behind it, and _should_ be devoting his thoughts to that, not mooning like a lovestruck toad. His stretching hand found the book on the nearby table, which he latched onto and began to read, hoping for a distraction.

The hobbit wasn’t sure how much time passed before the sound of a slamming door echoed through the hobbit hole, announcing the presence of a certain dwarf. Bilbo sighed and wondered whether to lecture him _yet again_ on the proper treatment of doors, especially when they have been freshly painted. Yavanna knows he’d done it enough times. It seemed that Thorin rather forgot himself after a hard day of work.

A few months ago, Saradoc Brandybuck from down the road had offered up his father’s old tool-shed for Thorin’s use. It was disconnected from the hobbit-hole, and impractically large; it seemed that his father had been a rather avid hoarder of tools (an odd choice in mathoms, to be sure, but Bilbo wasn’t the sort to judge another gentlehobbit’s mathoms). So as his own personal project, Thorin had fixed up the shed and converted it to a forge, and gradually hobbit customers had begun to trickle in with a broken lock or a bent poker or a faulty hinge to be fixed, wealthier and less respectable hobbits – usually Tooks or Brandybucks – even asking for jewellery or weapons. Bilbo took it as the sign of acceptance that it was and tried to console himself with that whenever he caught some Bolger giving the dwarf a gormlessly alarmed look. Bilbo himself couldn’t see the appeal of bashing away at a hunk of metal all day, but apparently it was relaxing, or something of the like.

As the shadow that was Thorin stormed past, Bilbo absently said ‘Don’t slam the door.’

He received a grunt in reply. Well, it was frankly more than he had been expecting. 

A short while later, the dwarf returned, tiredness tugging at his eyes. He wasted no time in collapsing into his armchair and letting out a tired groan, his head falling back to expose the cable of his neck. Bilbo stared at it stupidly for a moment. He noticed Thorin’s eyes slip open and hurriedly returned to his book, perhaps ruffling the pages a tad more than necessary. 

‘How was the forge?’ he asked before Thorin could comment upon his odd behaviour.

‘Tiring,’ replied the dwarf, idly turning his head to study the hobbit. Again, Bilbo would very much like everyone to know that he _very desperately tried_ not to notice the way in which the firelight played across the planes of Thorin’s face and picked out the strands of mithril in his hair. ‘And the markets?’

Bilbo cleared his throat and looked back to his page. ‘Uneventful.’

The hobbit couldn’t help wondering if Thorin was actually as heart-breakingly gorgeous as he seemed to his eyes, or if his love for the dwarf distorted his view. He then only realised that his eyes were fixed on the same sentence after he’d read over it seventeen times.

‘Oh, yes,’ he recalled suddenly after a minute, seeming to startle Thorin out of some reverie. ‘I bought you something.’ He gestured to the still-wrapped harp waiting by the fireplace. Thorin’s eyes didn’t move from where they lay on Bilbo and he began to feel flustered beneath that luminous gaze. 

‘Well,’ he continued, beginning to ramble, as he did when nervous. ‘I didn’t really _buy_ it. It was given to me. By a friend. I didn’t steal it. Not that there’s anything wrong with stealing – well, in the right context that is, in the wrong one it’s a little immoral, but–’ Bilbo cut himself off abruptly and looked away with a small cough. ‘Sorry. Go on, then.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thorin briefly raise an amused eyebrow before making his way to the instrument. When the coverings fell away, Bilbo didn’t miss the look of startled wonder on his face, nor how it faded to wistfulness; they were private expressions, and he should have looked away, but really he was a greedy hobbit and would take what he could get.

Thorin ran his fingers over the polished wood of the instrument with an almost reverential grace. When the rough pads brushed against the strings, they gave a sweet murmur, and the sadness fell from his eyes like dust shaken from an old coat.

‘You don’t have to–’

‘I will play,’ the dwarf interrupted gently, before looking up at him with a soft smile, and oh _,_ that really wasn’t fair. ‘Thank you.’

‘It – My pleasure,’ Bilbo stuttered, pressing a hand to his chest. It didn’t ease the ache inside, and really he hadn’t expected it to. Thorin’s smiles were impossible, because the ice of his eyes melted to water clear and warm and sweet, and his cheeks pulled up with childlike happiness, and his teeth shone through his beard, and really they were so _rare_ and _precious_ and they made him into an entirely different person, and, well, Bilbo valued them more than he ever could gems or jewels or even a smooth golden Ring, and they made him want to clutch onto the dwarf and never let go, basking in his warmth like a flower turned to the sun.

It was that smile, after all, that he had thought of, when the heat of Orodruin seared his skin and his mind was poisoned and inky, after Gollum tore at his finger and he clung desperately to a ledge as the Ring sank into the embrace of molten rock.

Thorin had taken the harp back to his chair and sat with it, the handheld instrument seeming almost at home in his careful hold. He was lengthwise to Bilbo. The hobbit watched his profile as he leaned forwards, engaged in his task, a thick curtain of black hair falling before his ear. The itch to brush it back tickled through his fingers; Bilbo laced them together to prevent any accidents. After a few plucked notes, and a little adjustment (the instrument was almost perfectly in tune, and obviously new – Reginald Proudfoot, the dirty liar who _lies_ ) Thorin began to play.

Bilbo had thought he knew what to expect. After hearing the once-king sing, slow and deep and mourning for a sadness which the hobbit could not quite grasp, he had been expecting something similar; he had certainly not expected a tune as warm and comforting as the fire before him, pouring from Thorin’s fingers like liquid gold. In a rare, unguarded moment, he allowed his head to fall to the side and watched the play of emotion across the dwarf’s peaceful face.

‘Did you like it?’ Thorin asked later, when the sky outside was black as coal and the harp was carefully wrapped and stowed away the largest guestroom.

‘Oh, yes,’ the hobbit replied. ‘It was beautiful.’

Thorin smiled at him, and he returned it, because he was a foolish young hobbit with a weak heart.

Then he pushed his wistfulness away with no small amount of irritation and allowed his smile to become more natural as he looked to the fire. The flames licked warmly at the blackened log, dancing shades of crimson and amber, nothing at all like those of Mount Doom. The fact that he could look at the fire without remembering soothed the somewhat tense line of his body and he melted into his chair.

‘Midsummer is approaching,’ Thorin said, his deep voice weaving with the crackle of the flames.

‘Yes,’ Bilbo replied absently. ‘And that brings the Party. Will you come?’

‘I…am not sure.’ 

A frown creased Bilbo’s brow and he cast the dwarf a quick look. He was staring into the fire, expression unreadable.

‘Why?’

‘I do not think it would be proper.’

Bilbo ran this through his Thorin-to-Westron translator and shot up, sleepiness forgotten in his outrage. ‘You mean for us to be seen together? You think I am _embarrassed_ of you? Ashamed?’

‘The other hobbits think badly of me, and you have a good reputation to uphold,’ he replied, turning his gaze to the hobbit earnestly. ‘I do not want to put you through more trouble than I already have–’

‘Thorin Oakenshield, you complete _idiot_ of a dwarf!’ Bilbo barked, because shouting was always more likely to get through his thick skull. Honestly, it was denser than the stone he came from. ‘I made the decision to allow you to live with me, and _I_ will bear the consequences – which I am perfectly able to do! I’ve faced a _dragon_ , for Yavanna’s sake. Do you truly think I care about propriety or my reputation? I thought that you held me in better regard, but I must have been mistaken!’

The dwarf opened his mouth to reply, but before he could get out a word Bilbo leaned over and smacked him on the arm – gently, because even though he was an _absolute sodding blockhead_ he was an honest one.

‘You are much more important than what the Shire thinks of me,’ he maintained staunchly. ‘Even if they don’t know how you are, I _do_ , and I think it’s about time you earned some peace. You came here to get away from your responsibilities – no, don’t look like that, you well should have, you deserved to – and I don’t want you…brooding over the most birdbrained of things. I know it’s hard, but cut yourself some slack. You don’t have to constantly torture yourself, you know, even if you think it terribly majestic to do so.’

Thorin nodded silently, the look on his face rather similar to his nephews’ after they received one of Balin’s especially resounding dressing-downs. He looked a little intimidated, in fact, and Bilbo couldn’t help a small glow of smugness. It would seem that all those years lecturing sticky-fingered fauntlings paid off after all. 

‘As you wish, Bilbo,’ he said eventually.

‘You’ll come? Only if you want to.’

‘…I’ll come.’

‘Good.’

Bilbo twitched his nose and looked away to glower at the fire, quite missing the soft colour which lingered about the once-king’s eyes.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Much to the apprehension and concern of the inhabitants of the Shire, the week leading up to Midsummer’s Day were plagued by raging storms and a veritable deluge of rain. The possibility of cancellation, an unprecedented event in the history of Hobbiton, was heavy in the Shirelings’ hearts – the Party Tree was barely even visible through the thick curtain of rain, and faunts cowered beneath the tables at the flash and rumble of thunder.

Bilbo himself spent his days sulking and eyeing his battered garden longingly. Thorin, on the other hand, was perfectly content to sit and read one of his books, chin in hand, a cup of tea beside him. How the dwarf had amassed so much patience, Bilbo had no idea. He himself almost unbearably missed the touch of the sun and the wind on his face; he had been able to leave Bag End for days, being drenched within seconds if he so much as stepped outside. The hobbit was ready to admit that he was being driven a little stir-crazy and the fact certainly did not escape his companion’s attention.

‘You’re sulking,’ Thorin observed as he serenely turned a page. Bilbo merely sped up his pace where he travelled from left door to right door and back again, forging a line through the warm living room.

‘Am not.’

‘Are so.’

‘You’re a child.’

The dwarf rolled his eyes.

‘You have been pacing since dawnbreak, I hardly think that I am the child in this situation.’

‘Well, _I’ve_ been stuck inside for days! It isn’t natural, I tell you!’

‘Our miners spend months below ground without seeing the merest glimmer of sunlight. I believe that you can survive.’

Bilbo ceased his pacing to glare at his irritatingly calm companion, not allowing himself to be softened by the suggestion of a smile tugging playfully at Thorin's mouth as he did a rather bad job of pretending to read, or the lovely sight which was his freshly-washed hair swinging over his shoulder to hang in a silvershot curtain. He very pointedly did not stare at the pale strip of neck exposed by his simple blue tunic, instead folding his arms with a huff.

‘ _I_ am not a dwarf,' he said pointedly. Thorin merely raised a calm eyebrow and turned a page.

‘ _You_ are overdramatic.’

‘Says you! Who’s the one who threatened to slay Thranduil, his entire army, and every last one of his kin after he called you a _goose_? Hmm?’

‘I do not speak that foul tongue! For all I knew, it could have been a grave insult!’

‘And you couldn’t spare _three seconds_ for it to be translated?’

Thorin’s eyes narrowed, his facade of calm finally shattered, and drew himself up regally. Most unfortunately the move did nothing but remind Bilbo of an affronted pigeon puffing himself up and he couldn’t quite hide his snickering (which also may or may not have been fuelled by the memory of that most eventful day, in the aftermath of the Battle of the Five Armies, when Thorin had been in the middle of a rather impressive tirade of swearing when the bandage around his head fallen to cover one eye. Thranduil's smirk had not helped in the least). The dwarf rolled his eyes again at the sound, but despite himself the tension disappeared from his jawline.

‘We do not all possess your rationale, Bilbo.’

‘Oh?’ Bilbo asked, his eyes glinting teasingly. ‘What was that? The mighty Thorin Oakenshield admitting one of his shortcomings? Well, I never!’ He clutched a hand dramatically to his chest. The dwarf snorted and shook his head, his dark hair shifting about his ears; his silver cuffs glittered with the movement.

‘You have been spending far too much time with my nephews. They are becoming a bad influence.’

‘I haven’t seen them for a _year_ , you paranoid old dwarf – and letters don’t count, by the way,’ the hobbit sniffed. Thorin chuckled lowly and Bilbo staunchly ignored the shivers which jangled down his spine at the sound. Sometimes it still surprised him, would hit him at the oddest of moments, how he felt that he was only now beginning to see the  _real_ Thorin Oakenshield, not a disgraced, angry prince or a gold-mad king.

‘How go your preparations for the Party?’ asked Thorin curiously. He had tried to assist with the process a number of times, but Bilbo had always fussily herded him away, refusing to let him even choose his clothing for the occasion. He was a dwarf, after all, and a dwarf with the style of a half-blind orc at that. Bilbo was perfectly fine being seen with him, but most certainly not if he wore one of those, those, _atrocious_  excuses of coats. The Party stretched for three days and three nights, and the entirety of the Shire would be there, after all. The first day was dedicated to feasting, the second to drinking, and the third to dancing. When the sun fell the massive bonfire provided illumination, any hobbits with musical talent revealing their instruments, and on rare occasions Gandalf’s fireworks would shower the sky.

Bilbo couldn’t help wondering if the wizard would turn up for this year’s celebration. He wouldn’t put it past him. He hadn’t seen his old friend since they’d parted ways at the corners of the Shire, nor any of the dwarves for that matter – aside for Thorin, of course.

It was safe to say that Bilbo had received a bit of a shock when the once-king appeared on his doorstep one early Spring morning, grumbling about the winding streets and confusing architecture. It had taken all the hobbit had not to throw himself at him on the spot, either to kiss him or hit him he wasn’t entirely sure, though after Thorin’s halting, yet obviously heartfelt apology he’d found the latter urge swiftly dissolving.

‘They’re almost complete,’ Bilbo replied as he turned on his heel. ‘I’m just waiting on the spun-sugar treats from Mistress Burrows; they should arrive soon, though perhaps the storm has impeded her journey…she is getting on in years. Oh, I do hope she’s alright…’

He then proceeded to descend into indecipherable chunnering. Thorin watched him, badly restraining a laugh as the hobbit paced and muttered beneath his breath; Bilbo chose to ignore this, instead wrinkling his nose in concentration and counting on his fingers. While it was not mandatory for attendees of the Party to bring gifts, the gentlehobbit greatly enjoyed buying treats for all the small fauntlings…and perhaps a certain dwarf whose raging sweet tooth Bilbo had discovered after he devoured an entire jar of his best lavender cupcakes.

Bilbo had actually found it rather adorable – as if he would ever admit that to Thorin. And if he surreptitiously bought three cookbooks on baking sweets that was his business and nobody else’s.

‘The rain seems to be abating,’ Thorin observed casually. Bilbo’s head snapped around like a warg on the hunt, staring out the window to see that the sun’s light was clearer, the clouds a softer shade of white. The fresh smell of the earth after rain skipped in through the open window; Bilbo breathed in deeply and grinned as a cheerful breeze combed through his curls. The childlike urge to run and yell and whoop and do other such immature things was stronger than it had been for a good many years.

‘Thank Yavanna,’ the hobbit rejoiced. ‘The Party’s still on!’ He turned to Thorin, mood effervescent with the return of blue sky. ‘Come on! We are most certainly not wasting a bright summer’s day, not ever again!’

With that he took Thorin’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip and tugged him outside, the dwarf sighing a little but complying. One should never keep a hobbit from the sunlight, after all; not if they like all of their limbs where they are.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are my drug, enable me pls *3*
> 
> Also feedback is amazing, and if you have any ideas, suggestions, criticisms, or comments in general, I would love to hear them! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your lovely comments, kudos and bookmarks, it really makes an author feel special :)

Three days later found Bilbo and Thorin in the kitchen, Thorin furiously kneading a lump of dough with the concentration of a hundred Elven scholars, Bilbo trying to keep an eye on the cookies already in the oven but mostly ogling the dwarf’s muscular forearms where his sleeves were rolled up. Really, such a view was entirely distracting, so he could not be faulted for being unable to tear his eyes away.

He most certainly _could_ be faulted, however, for allowing the cookies to burn.

‘Blast,’ Bilbo scowled, levelling his glare at the twelve lumps of charcoal. Thorin frowned at him from where he was still concertedly kneading the dough, and it took all of the hobbit’s self-control to maintain his glower.

‘This isn’t like you, Bilbo,’ said the dwarf. ‘What were you so distracted by?’

The hobbit coughed to dispel his discomfort and turned to the waiting batch of scones. ‘Nothing.’

‘Really?’ he asked, arching an eyebrow.

‘Yes, really!’

Thorin hummed. ‘If you say so.’

He returned to his task, and Bilbo heaved a silent sigh of relief, thanking Yavanna beneath his breath. For some odd reason, it hurt him to lie to his companion – even for the most innocent of reasons, even if he would never in a thousand summers admit what he was distracted by. Thorin was just so open these days, so trusting, almost a completely different dwarf from the one on the road. Even though he’d sometimes wake up screaming in the dark hours of the morning, his shoulders were looser, his forehead smoother, his eyes more peaceful than he had ever seen them. Bilbo didn’t really know what he’d done to earn such a sight but soft wings still brushed by his ribcage.

_Butterflies_ , he scoffed inwardly. _What are you, a love-struck faunt?_

Then he saw Thorin sneaking one of the ruined cookies from the corner of his eye, even though they must have tasted dreadful, his dark blue eyes lighting like a child’s as soon as he bit in to it, and he thought, _maybe_.

He laughed softly at himself and reached for the tray.

After a few hours of hard work, the final treat was removed from the oven – a large pecan pie – and Bilbo was having a hard time keeping Thorin away from the things cooling by the window. There were only so many times you could smack a once-king’s wandering hand with a wooden spoon, after all. Luckily the hobbit had grown immune to his puppy eyes (dear Yavanna, it must run in the family) and the fruit of their labours was relatively safe. Bilbo had to admit that the scents of freshly-baked treats were immensely tempting, but he was determined to set an example for Thorin. It was almost hilarious, the manner in which the dwarf seemed to have de-aged at least a century while in the Shire; it _would_ have been hilarious if hadn't been so immensely lovely. It was how Bilbo knew he was in fact in love with Thorin, the manner in which his happiness affected his own so much. It was undoubtedly a nice feeling...though some less pleasant side-effects came along with Thorin's new bliss, such as immaturity, as would shortly be in evidence.

As he flung the tea-towel over his shoulder, he noticed Thorin giving him a rather worrying grin from across the counter-top.

‘What?’ Bilbo asked suspiciously.

The dwarf’s smile only grew, and he leaned further forward on his stool.

‘I redact my earlier statement.’

‘Which one?’

‘You do not look more like a grocer than a burglar; in fact, I would have to say you currently most resemble a snowman.’

Bilbo paused for a moment, before narrowing his eyes warningly at him and ruffling a hand through his curls. A cloud of flour spiralled around him; he pointed a threatening finger at the widely grinning dwarf.

‘Not a word, Thorin Oakenshield! Not one single word!’

‘Of course,’ he said innocently, then after a moment the façade cracked and he snickered loudly. ‘I knew that you were keen on flowers, but I never thought it went quite so far.’

Bilbo could only face that with an almost imploring look.

'Thorin,  _please_.'

'I know,' Thorin grinned smugly. 'My jokes are quite... _stupundous_.'

 

The hobbit buried his face in his hands. 'Thorin, _no_. Stop. Please.'

'Stop what? These jests are quite  _ingrained_ into my being.' Thorin seemed inordinately pleased with himself, but his expression quickly moulded into a smirk as he added, 'Much as that flour is into your hair.'

Bilbo sputtered with indignation.

‘Oh – why, you–’

At his incoherent protesting, Thorin threw his head back and laughed unabashedly, sharp jawline on display. Bilbo ignored how his heart squeezed at the sight and instead chose to snatch a handful of flour and fling it at the dwarf. 

He stared at the hobbit, stunned, hair and eyebrows encrusted with white powder.

‘You look so _old_ ,’ Bilbo choked, descending into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. ‘Grandpa Thorin!’

Thorin raised a frosted eyebrow with great dignity and poise, which of course only served to increase the strength of Bilbo’s paroxysms. There was only one avenue left to the dwarf: retaliation. He and Frerin had once been known to rival Fili and Kili in mischievousness and that part of his spirit drove him to shower the small hobbit in a massive handful of flour.

Bilbo glared up at him with curls now entirely white.

‘You’ll pay for that,’ he said calmly, before his fists were suddenly full of flour and he was chasing the once-king from the kitchen, both middle-aged, both respected warriors, both giggling like tiny fauntlings. The oft-silent halls of Bag End echoed with breathless, giddy laughter and childish threats. There were, of course, occasional refuels of ammunition, which happened to be the perfect opportunity for ambushes; Bilbo took advantage of this to pour sticky syrup all over Thorin's dark mane. Eventually the dwarf got his own back and managed to ensnare Bilbo in his grip, firmly holding the squirming hobbit still as he smeared leftover dough all over his hair and neck. Breathless with mirth, he kicked at Thorin’s shins.

‘Let me go, you great brute! I’ll write to your sister!’

‘Oh no, not Dis,’ Thorin drawled sardonically, but he released his hold, betraying his fear of his admittedly terrifying kin. Bilbo stumbled backwards and clutched onto the kitchen table, the racing of his heart not entirely from exertion; he’d felt the dwarf’s strength and furnace-like heart once before, on the Carrock, but experiencing it again was just as shocking as it had been the first time.

Bilbo scraped at his forehead while throwing the dwarf a deadly stink-eye. He was now very well-versed at hiding his innermost feelings, and was beginning to hope that he might actually be able to survive the year without his heart giving out.

‘Do not glare at me, you started it,’ the once-king said childishly. Bilbo heaved a deep sigh speaking of countless years of exasperation and turned to the sink.

‘Come over here and get cleaned up, you’re most certainly not walking around Bag End in such a state,’ he admonished. He really couldn’t help flicking a bit of water at the dwarf, which was met with a crooked smirk, and before long both of them were soaking wet. At least it was confined to the tiled kitchen this time - though the two somehow still managed to make a quite fantastic mess.

‘Truce!’ Thorin finally called, raising his empty hands. ‘Truce. I call truce.’

Bilbo threw him a wicked grin from above his massive bucket of water, but relented and placed it on the floor. His chest was raw and tight from laughter and exertion but he revelled in it, in the adrenaline beating through his body and the happy thrum of his heart and the smile lines carved deeply around Thorin's shining eyes.

‘If you say so,' Bilbo said cheerily. Thorin tutted in a stunning imitation of Dori and Bilbo laughed, ruffling a hand through his wet curls. His expression became a wince when his now clinging shirt dragged across his skin, and he surveyed the damage. The wooden floor was covered in a light dusting of flour, which had missed the nearby rug by a stroke of luck; the kitchen was strewn with icing sugar, water spotted the wallpaper, and both fireside chairs had somehow managed to be smothered in dried dough. The hobbit groaned at the sight. They would be absolutely _unsalvageable_ ; he would have to buy replacements. Not that he minded, really. It was worth it to see the once-king laugh that freely, and for so long. He did regret the state of his shirt, however, tugging at the transparent material with a scowl.

Looking back at Thorin, Bilbo frowned to see that he was staring intently at a spot just above his curly head, and that his stoic expression was ruined by the dark flush reddening his cheeks.

‘Thorin?’ he asked, concerned. ‘Something the matter?’

‘M’fine,’ the dwarf grunted, before whirling and storming off to the bathroom.

Bilbo merely shook his head and fetched his tea-towel, having long since given up trying to decipher the many moods of Thorin Oakenshield.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed :)  
> comments are most especially appreciated!


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